


Anduin's Amber Ale

by sshomoerotica



Series: Wranduin Week 2019 [2]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: M/M, Wranduin Week 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 10:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18009017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshomoerotica/pseuds/sshomoerotica
Summary: Perhaps parties like these are not uncommon. Pandaren do not need to seek a reason to celebrate -- to them, life itself is reason enough. It lines up well with what Anduin has heard and learned in his explorations of  the area, and he thinks perhaps it's something he would like to bring back to Stormwind and see implemented at home.





	Anduin's Amber Ale

**Author's Note:**

> _Wranduin Week 2019_  
>  **Prompt:** "Party"

 

 

 

 

Pandaren, Anduin thinks, are not so dissimilar from dwarves -- at least, when it comes to their love of drink and celebration.

Perhaps it is a bit of a bias, considering he's been safely lodged in the Tavern in the Mists, and so close to the home of the most famous brewery on Pandaria. Stormstout lies just down the stairs and into the Valley, and often he catches a Grummle trader or two harking a cask.

The guard assigned to Anduin is at least taking a moment to enjoy themself -- Anduin knows that even though his soldiers are loyal to him, to stay and keep an eye on the recovering invalid prince is no one's idea of an exciting military post

"Is there a holiday being celebrated that I am not aware of?"

Anduin turns and regards Wrathion coming through the doorway of the tavern, resplendent in all his garb. Anduin hadn't expected him to be in attendance at this rowdy showing; he’d left this morning with no word as to when he’d be back. The dragon prince contains himself to no one's schedule, and he comes and goes as he pleases.

Anduin laughs and shakes his head, understanding immediately the confusion in Wrathion's voice. "None that I know. Pandaren it seems are much more lenient with their causes for celebration."

"Do you not partake?"

"I confess my life never leant much to parties, or drink." He shrugs, self-deprecating and trying to fight away the embarrassed heat in his cheeks.

"Ah yes. The sheltered princeling; a perfect image of a virtuous priest." Wrathion smiles, baring his sharp teeth. Anduin has been unsuccessful in trying to teach him how to smile with less edge.

"I did mind-control a hero sent to bring me home, and then ran off into the wilds of Pandaria alone." He returns, smiling sharp right back.

"Oh my!" Wrathion cries, dramatic as ever. He throws Anduin a smirk and a wink. "You are _truly_ a rapscallion to rival any villain."

Anduin feels himself flush and looks away, laughing weakly.

"I'm afraid I must apologize then." Wrathion continues, with nothing contrite in his tone or face. Anduin pulls a face, confused.

"Apologize?"

As if summoned, Left appears with two full steins in both her hands. One she hands to Wrathion, who takes it without a word. The other she holds out to Anduin.

"If you would prefer not to drink, of course, I would not see you pressured. I only assumed..." Wrathion shrugs, the motion too smooth in a way Anduin is learning to associate with dragons. "You mortals _do_ like your drink."

The cup is laughably large. In Wrathion's hands it looks smaller - an effect of his claws, perhaps - but Anduin wraps both his hands around his own and feels childish.

“I’ll drink.”

"Cheers, then." Wrathion raises his stein and Anduin does the same. The foamy froth sloshes down the sides, dripping down Anduin's wrist.

Anduin curses under his breath and takes a sip; the brew is surprisingly sweet; very drinkable. He takes another sip and cradles the cup to his chest.

"I am surprised to see you," he starts, gesturing to Wrathion. He has to lean in slightly and raise his voice a hair to be heard above a sudden roar of laughter. "I had thought you had business that had taken you from the stair."

"Merely some meetings with the many champions in my employ." Wrathion says, waving a hand to dismiss the subject as easily as an errant fly. "A bauble or two awarded, another errand assigned."

Anduin hums and takes another sip, smiling to think how the champions would feel to hear themselves spoken of so.

He glances towards the commotion of the laughter and catches a Tauren at the bar is nearly falling over, grabbing a Night Elf by the shoulder as they laugh. In the corner a Pandaren and Hozen are playing some sort of guessing game, with cups and gold coins. Another larger table has set up a card game, with a Goblin, a few Pandaren, a Grummle, and a Human. Everyone is laughing, drinking, eating - clapping each other on the back or arms over each other’s shoulders.

With a hint of guilt, Anduin realizes that up until the arrival of the Alliance and Horde, Pandaria was a nearly utopian land. There have been no steady wars constantly fought over land or resources, no battling between different factions of its peoples. Yes, the Klaxxi have stood a constant idle threat, but the truth of the matter is Kalimdor and the Eastern Kingdoms have barely known a minute's peace for centuries.

Perhaps parties like these are not uncommon. Pandaren do not need to seek a reason to celebrate -- to them, life itself is reason enough. It lines up well with what Anduin has heard and learned in his explorations of  the area, and he thinks perhaps it's something he would like to bring back to Stormwind and see implemented at home.

In contrast to the rowdiness around them, he and Wrathion sit in companionable silence as they drink. The dragon prince has never been one for small talk. They can, of course, talk each other hoarse in their evening chats, or their more heated discussions, but the social niceties of chatting just to fill the silence never seems to have caught on.

_"Why would I waste time speaking of things that do not matter?" He'd boggled when Anduin had first brought it up. "Do you truly think it better to discuss mundanities like the weather? Are you truly that insulted? Our silences are just as valuable as our conversations, to me."_

It had been difficult at first for Anduin to reconcile the idea that it was alright not to talk with the way he had been raised to politely and sometimes insistently fill the quiet. And yet, Wrathion had been right; Anduin, too, had never disliked their silence. It was never awkward, never tense or strained.

Anduin had merely added it to the ever-growing list of things he and Wrathion were learning from each other.

Occasionally a reveler slips by and recognizes Anduin, turns to speak kind words to him, offers to buy him another round. There's more than a few humans here, and of course some dwarves that wouldn't miss a good party with good ale for the world.

Music flows easily from somewhere that Anduin cannot see; bouncing bright strings and heavy, supportive drum beats. Bawdy jokes are shouted across the room and Anduin laughs, face heating. Oh how his father would flinch to see him in such a place, with such company - ignoring even the prince of the Black Dragonflight that sits at his side. This is no place for a crown prince of Stormwind, Varian would growl. Anduin sits up a bit straighter and thinks haughtily to a father who cannot hear him, _I am my own man here._

"I am so glad that I came to Pandaria." He sighs, announcing it. His cup is nearly empty when he goes to drink, but even as he recognizes it - as if by magic - it is replaced with one yet full of ale.

"Are you?"

"Well." Anduin frowns into his cup. "I wish I hadn't come here on the wake of a ship's sinking." He sobers for a moment, remembering the fear and the water and the shouting. "But I am thankful for it."

Wrathion gives one of his smiles that Anduin associates with playing the devil's advocate.

"Thankful that your ship sank?"

"Thankful that I was given a chance to find my own path!" Anduin says, perhaps a bit peevishly. “You knew what I meant. When I woke up here, there was no one to tell me what to do, and I was in a.... A new land, a _wild_ land. Father couldn't hide me away, tucked safe in the keep anymore." A laugh bubbles up in him. "He sent heroes to find me, of course, and I met one -- nice enough, but so pushy!”

“Is that so?”

“I am the crown prince of Stormwind!” Anduin exclaimed. “I wanted to be my own master! I deserved my freedom. I _am_ sorry I used mind control. It was only because my father ordered them to -- but they _were_ nice." He shrugs, spilling his drink as he does. He makes a sound of saddened surprise, putting his cup down and wiping his hands innefectually at the new damp on his pants. "Pandaria gave me my independence!" He lists slightly in his seat and reaches out to steady himself. A shoulder beneath his hand keeps him from falling onto his face; Wrathion's shoulder. He looks over at him, sitting up straight, red eyes turned to Anduin.

"And I'm thankful I met you." Anduin smiles.

"Me?" Wrathion sets about pushing Anduin upright. He settles back against his chair and watches Wrathion fix his clothes.

"Mm-hmm, you. I mean, I don't have the best track record with the Black Dragonflight. There's -- well, you know, and I was so young! How was I to know?" He shakes his head at the memory. He does not want to remember that. "But _you_ are different! You are... You are neither Alliance nor Horde, and for the first time I feel like I have an ally in my goals. My father says I am _immature_ and _naïve_ to speak of peace. He thinks that I am sheltered and spoiled, because I do not know what it means to have your farm raided by orcs, or a kingdom stolen by undead armies." He leans forward towards Wrathion. "My father thinks I am a fool. Oh, he doesn't _say_ it outright, but I can tell. It's why he wants to keep me in Stormwind -- he's a warrior, and I've chosen to be a priest. He thinks I'm weak and stupid and young. But I _know_! I see the lines, how they blur. Tauren, Trolls and Night Elf put aside their differences in druidi- druidis--" Anduin paused, frustrated at how the words tangle in his mouth. He gestures to the bar, indicating the friendly Tauren and Night Elf still chatting away. "Their common druidic ground! Goblins can be neutral. Archbishops can be corrupted by the Cult of Twilight. Everyone can be anything, and I think in their hearts all the good people of Azeroth desire to put an end to the fighting."

A hiccup startles him, painful and sharp. "Ow." He frowns, rubbing at his own chest.

"Anduin-" Wrathion starts. Anduin sits patiently, and looks at Wrathion - hard. The dim, warm light of the tavern has obscured the prince almost entirely, save where the gold of his jewelry shines, and the unearthly glow of his eyes. "You… You are a man of great insight."

"You _understand_ , Wrathion." Anduin continues; making him see this is of the utmost importance. "You conscript from both Alliance _and_ Horde without thought. You helped me to understand how the fate of Azeroth is greater than our petty divide. You and I, we make a good pair, don't we?" He stops, still looking intently at Wrathion.

"...Yes, we do, your highness."

Anduin scoffs, waving a hand. "Don't talk to me in _titles_ , Wrathion. I've always liked that about you; you treat me like anyone else. If you think I'm being naïve, you tell me. When I'm being stupid, you let me know. If you think my logic is sound, you tell me. You talk to me as if I matter - _me_ , as a man, beyond what my breeding makes me." He stops, swaying in his seat. "You _matter_ to me, Wrathion."

"Your highn- that is, _Anduin_ , I do not...."

Anduin stares at Wrathion, suddenly feeling very quiet and patient, almost sleepy. The lights of the party are diffused around them, and he can feel his heartbeat in his palms; there is a slight tingle along his scalp. Wrathion is looking back at him, and Anduin can't read anything in his eyes.

Wrathion finally sigh, breaking eye contact to look away, towards the rest of the room. "You are deep in your cups, my prince."

Anduin jerks, confused. He looks over at the stein on the table.

"I am not!" He argues, and thrusts the cup towards Wrathion as evidence. "I've only had the one."

"Oh, _Anduin_."

Wrathion's voice - the way he says his name - makes Anduin's insides twist up. It isn't the twist of anxiety or fear or guilt -- those are feelings Anduin knows full well. This is new. This is almost pleasant, like when he calls to the Light and it works through him as if a part of him.

"Come." Wrathion stands up, reaching out to help Anduin out of his chair. "Let us get you to bed."

Wrathion's touch is very warm. Anduin lets the man move him, help him to his feet and begin the journey up the stairs to their rooms. Wrathion manipulates them until Anduin's arm is across his shoulder, his own arm secure around Anduin's waist.

"Am I very heavy?" He ponders aloud.

"No. But you are very..." Wrathion pauses. Anduin is very focused on putting his feet in proper order. His bad leg is being extremely difficult, as if it has a mind of its own. Wrathion yanks at his waist, startling him. "Stand up straight!"

"I am!" Anduin snaps, swaying with the motion. His head lists to the side, landing in the curve of Wrathion's neck. His skin is covered by the wrappings of his intricate and very large turban. Anduin is struck by the sudden thought that perhaps the thing is so large as to hide horns!

"What are you giggling at?"

"Nothing!" Anduin grins. He sighs and continues to move up the stairs with Wrathion's support. "You smell nice."

Wrathion sighs.

It feels eons by the time they find footing at the landing. Anduin has one hand fisted in the strange tassled epaulets that Wrathion always wears. His armor is so much for show -- all cloth and a bit of leather, nothing truly to protect him in a fight.

Wrathion gets the door to Anduin's chambers open, and then Anduin notices Right and Left have followed them upstairs. They enter Anduin's room and light the lamps, turn down the bedsheets. Anduin reaches out with his free hand and takes hold of the sash across Wrathion's chest.

"I am not a child." He says, upset.

"No, yet you _are_ drunk."

Anduin makes a noise of disinterest and lays his head down against Wrathion's shoulder. The room is starting to spin. Right and Left exit, and together Wrathion moves Anduin into the room proper.

"Well, this is it." Anduin does not move. Beneath him, Wrathion is like stone. Sun-warmed stone, that smells of smoke and spices. Anduin feels so very warm. "Anduin.” Wrathion is nearly xhidijf him. “Come now, you must let go of me."

"Lay with me." Anduin breathes.

He was wrong about Wrathion being stone. The man goes even stiffer beneath him; his arms pull away; the more rigid parts of his armor are now poking sharp and uncomfortable against Anduin's body.

This is wrong - Wrathion should not be pulling away, Anduin did not want this.

"Stay, please." Anduin presses his face ever closer, clinging and hiding himself in Wrathion's shoulder and neck. He's panicking at the thought that he'll leave, and then Anduin will be alone. And cold. Anduin's entire body is so warm, and he doesn't know -- he only wants Wrathion to _stay_. "Do I not matter to you too, Wrathion?" He asks.

Wrathion says nothing. After a moment Anduin pulls back and attempts to stand up straight - a difficult feat when the floor beneath his feet moves like ocean waves. Wrathion's face is a mask, as it so often is. Those eyes, glowing and stoic. The line of his mouth, straight and unyielding. He is not a hair out of place, while Anduin feels as if he is messily coming apart at the seams.

Between one breath and the next he feels himself beginning to tilt backwards. He reaches out in the hope of catching himself, but it is Wrathion's arms about him that keep him from falling.

"You  _do_ care." Anduin teases. His heart is in his throat and he feels nearly sick to his stomach, but he is startlingly happy.

"Anduin, please.” Anduin cannot remember the last time he heard Wrathion say please. He also recognizes that his voice is very soft. Wrathion’s eyes close; he looks almost uncomfortable. “We cannot do this. You are being ridiculous. Let us get you to bed, and I shall see you in the morning and--"

Anduin has never kissed anyone before. What chance has he had to do so, locked up like some rare and special pet? He barely knows anyone his own age -- anyone he might call _friend_ are double his age or older, and they're all rulers of their own kingdoms besides.

He's kissing Wrathion, though. His lips are warm against Anduin's and the smell of him is everywhere. Anduin still has hold of Wrathion's sash and the hand that been attached to his epaulets slips down, touches the covered area of Wrathion's neck and shoulder. He isn't sure what to do, only understands that kissing is lips and that it feels nice to be kissing Wrathion. Wrathion’s hands tighten in the cloth of Anduin’s shirt, pulling it tighter against Anduin’s shoulders and neck.

Anduin exhales heavily through his nose and presses closer still, until their foreheads bump together. He pulls away a fraction, barely a hairsbreadth before he feels cool sharp metal touch his face.

Wrathion's hands are cupping his cheeks. Heat floods Anduin from head to toe as he stands there, unable to move.

“ _Please_.” He whispers, eyes tightly screwed shut. The room is starting to spin again, and it wasn't spinning so badly before when they were kissing; when Wrathion's arms were about him to hold him up.  He doesn't know what he wants, only that he does; too young yet to understand the commands of his body, only knowing that he cannot let this stop.

“Anduin, you-” Wrathion’s lips brush his cheek as he speaks. His voice vibrates in Anduin’s bones. “You matter to me, so very much. We cannot -”

“Not you.” Anduin shakes his head, then stops when it makes him feel ill. “Everyone in this whole damned world tells me I can't.” He finally opens his eyes and busses his lips against Wrathion’s skin; the side of his nose, the cut of his cheek. It feels like the right thing to do. “Not you, too.”

Wrathion makes a sound, wordless, yet it grabs at Anduin’s innards like a set of sharp claws. Their lips come together again, harsher and harder, messy with teeth that clack together and noses that don't quite fit. Anduin opens his mouth, because -- they don't fit, he has to make room, it will work -- it feels like he has to, and then their tongues touch and Anduin has never felt _this_ before.

It's as if he no longer has control of his body. He feels like a passenger; similar to when he uses his mind control. It could be his body, but he doesn't know. The heat in him is unbearable, and he sighs and it catches in his throat. His eyes are closed and yet he still feels as if a darkness is creeping up on him; he tries his best to fight it, but it isn't long before it's clouding his head.

Before he knows it, he's been pulled under.

 

* * *

  


Anduin awakes alone in his bed, mouth dry and stuffed with the feeling of cotton, head split with a pain to rival that of the Bell upon his leg.

_Light, what did he do?_

He squirms experimentally, eyes held tightly shut against what little light has broken in through the wooden shutters of his room.

He's still dressed in his day clothes, belt and all. At least he took off his boots, he thinks, and wiggles his toes. He freezes. With a sudden flush of guilt, he realizes his pants are damp.

He's had the dreams before, of course -- he's a young man, not a celibate hermit -- but it still feels wrong and makes his stomach turn. Wrathion is his friend, and it's an abuse of their friendship to think that way of him. It's only because Wrathion is the first person his age he's gotten to know. It has nothing to do with how he smiles, or his voice, or the way his eyes look in low light ---

Anduin groans, his stomach suddenly heaving. He scrambles out of bed and vomits into a nearby vase.

Shit. Well, he'll make sure to have it cleaned.

He stumbles back to bed, sits down and starts to crawl back under the covers to waste away in peace, when he sees the bit of parchment on his bedside table.

The penmanship is flowing, delicate, far too ornate. Anduin would recognize it anywhere.

 

_My prince,_

_I hope the morning finds you well. I fear your first experience with ale may have been… overzealous. I have instructed Tong to keep the tavern quiet for you, and to bring you that light broth you like, once you're awake._

There are bits of started sentences scratched out, and blobs of ink scattered across the lower half of the note. What was once elegant looping script has turned to nearly chicken scratch.

 _I do not have words for what transpired last night_.

Anduin’s entire body breaks out in a cold sweat that has nothing to do with his hangover.

_I need you to know that I did not_

More scratches.

_I did not take advantage of you. You do matter to me, Anduin, in ways no one ever has before. I am only sorry it took us ale and inebriation to speak plainly of it._

_The text becomes cleaner again at the bottom._

_Drink plenty of water. Left assures me it will help. I'm out on business today, but if you still count me your friend, I would like to have dinner tonight; perhaps over a round of jihui if you feel up to it._

_Yours,_

_Wrathion._

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Ash checked this over for me but I re-did so much so apologies if there are errors!
> 
> I also played loose with so much shit. The Tavern is not this large lmao.
> 
> Title is based off an actual item mentioned in lore; [a special brew made in honor of King Anduin.](https://wow.gamepedia.com/Anduin%27s_Amber_Ale)


End file.
